


To All The Nicer Things You Could've Been

by agender_alien



Category: Trollhunters (Cartoon)
Genre: 0 to 100 real quick, Angst, Character Death, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, press f to pay respects
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-21
Updated: 2018-05-21
Packaged: 2019-05-09 15:32:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14718794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agender_alien/pseuds/agender_alien
Summary: Strickler always called Jim Young Atlas, but the old man's body was heaviest thing he’d ever had on his shoulders.





	To All The Nicer Things You Could've Been

With the way things between Barbara and Walter fell apart, Jim didn’t expect to ever see the old man ever again. He couldn’t deny that he’d missed him, though. The way he talked, like a veteran telling stories, and the begrudging love he had for Jim. But the way things in his world worked out, people were never set in stone. 

Breaking into a highschool wasn’t on the list of the most heinous things Jim had done. Considering the damage (a broken window), it really wasn’t that big of a deal. The scene inside was worse. 

Jim scrambled down the hallways, slipping on the floors in his armor, eyes wild and wide. Like a dog, he half ran, half crawled into the principal’s office, catching his weight on the door jamb, swinging into the dark room. The moon shone through the full wall windows, the light boxed in panels over the dark green carpet. The desk chair was tipped over, the drawers open and the contents scattered over the floor. White papers stained red under the body in the back, near the bookshelves. In his hand was his fountain pen, the key side exposed and covered in gory bits of flesh; it was obvious he’d tried to fight back. 

Swallowing the dinner rising in his throat, Jim knelt down next to him, blood bubbling up from the carpet around his knee. With a gloved hand, he reached out to shake Strickler’s shoulder. He didn’t respond. Jim turned over his cold body and brushed his wet hair out of his eyes, curling his lip when he saw his own reflection in the clouded twin mirrors. He closed the man’s eyes for him, and patted his shoulder again, slumping over his still face.

“Always knew they’d find you in the end, you old geezer.” 

If his mom noticed the bags under his eyes, she didn’t anything, and she didn't bring up the blood on his jacket either. Part of him was glad - at least she never asked what was wrong. With how much he had to lie to her, he didn’t know if he could handle lying about the death of his former mentor. But the another part of him couldn’t stand how oblivious she was to his life. After Walter left her, she never did talk to him again. Another man betrayed her. Another man hurt them, used them, and played with them. He knew she had a right to hate him; he guessed he did too. Strickler always called him Young Atlas, but his body was heaviest thing he’d ever had on his shoulders. 

Nomura organized the funeral services, which included burying him in an isolated Nebraskan field. Nobody would ever find him, and nobody would ever look for him.  Claire provided transportation, Toby helped dig, and Blinky built his coffin. It was a quiet, godless ceremony. 

“Jim.” Blinky looked at his son expectantly, holding out a hammer. With his other hands, he held down the lid to Strickler’s box. Jim realized he wanted him to strike the nails in. A strangled breath escaped him, and Claire curled her arm around his, letting him lean on her. Within seconds, Jim shook her off and took the hammer. Putting the nails in that wood felt like shutting a door on himself. 

Arrrgh lowered the wooden box into the messy, dry hole, and Jim couldn’t help but stare absently at the crooked setting of the coffin in the small grave. A part of him knew he would’ve found it funny if he didn’t want to curl into a corner. Blinky patted him on the back, rubbing circles in his tense shoulders. Nomura began to pour the dirt back, the dry soil making waterfalls over the wind soaring through the grassy plains. She caught Jim by the eyes as she looked up and blinked expectantly, green eyes wavering slightly. He nodded and took up the other shovel, dust clinging to his jeans to the last move. Somehow, it felt better to bury the opportunity than face what it could've been. 

Kids gossiped about his disappearance. The police found his blood in the office, but never found his body. There were missing posters stapled to telephone poles around town, and whenever he could, Jim tore them down, stuffing them into dumpsters and sewer drains. He didn’t have the right to have people looking for him. A lot of kids celebrated his death, because kids are cruel and awful, but that didn’t justify it. He was still a person. He wasn’t a good one, but Jim knows he could’ve been. 

Did he think of Jim, bleeding out? Did he curse his name, or call it?

Claire told him that he was holding onto nostalgic memories of him. Jim knew it was true. He was the closest thing to a father figure he’d ever had, for months, until he tried to kill Jim, his mom, and his friends. He was a sick man, a manipulative monster, and he would never forgive him for what he did. But god, Jim wished things had gone differently. Maybe if he hadn't summoned Angor Rot. Maybe if he'd broken away from Gunmar. Maybe if he was never a changeling.

Jim went out to his patch of bare ground every week or so. Claire was quiet every visit; she just watched as Jim sat with Strickler six feet beneath him. Sometimes he braided him strands of grass, and other times he clawed his hands so deep into the packed earth that his hands scabbed for weeks. Claire helped him through it at home - she would sit curled around Jim for hours, singing melodies while he hummed along blankly. She never complained about his shaky hands and uneven breathing, just carded through his hair when he talked about him.

“He can’t hurt anyone, ever again.” 

“But he could’ve been good. I could’ve helped him.”

“He was old, and he wasn’t going to change any time soon. You did all you could, Jim.”

“I don’t want to let go of what never happened.”

 

Opening the window and crawling out through it like a spider, Jim perched on his frosted roof to watch the sunrise over Arcadia, pale light touching first the mountains, then the city, and then the suburbs. It flashed in his eyes, which watered of the wind, and while wiping them, he puffed out a white breath of vapor. Spring always had a difficult time emerging in northern California, with weeks of swinging from ice to sun and back again. Tulips that bloomed early were killed by the cold, and the late bloomers were the ones the best off, as they emerged when the real spring began. Goosebumps rose on his arm as he raised it to shield his eyes from the glaring sun. 

“Jimbo, what are you doin’ on the roof?” The voice crackled in from below him from the walkie talkie sitting on his desk next to the open window. Jim perked his head up, squinting into the house across the street. Toby’s mop of ginger hair bobbed as he spoke.

“Can I come over?” 

Jim gave a thumbs up. In just a few moments, Toby was scrambling up the side of his house, sliding down the siding until Jim offered him a hand. They sat on the roof together for a while, watching and waiting for the sun to wake. Toby turned to look him in the eyes. 

“You’re gonna be okay, Jim.” 

 

School was ending. Finals week was over, and Jim was finally coaxed out of his long hoodies and jeans. The crew socks traded in for ankle socks, and the long sleeves reluctantly changed to short. He was itchy, uncomfortable, and very pale, but he was like that all the time, regardless of the reason. Arcadia Oaks was getting greener and lusher by the day; the rain kept falling, and the grass kept growing. The forest was a song that lulled Jim into sleep, into adventure, and into the dark. A waltz in the woods was a shared infinity for him and Claire. An evening spent leaning against a valley oak, sandwiched between Toby and Claire, amulet asleep in his backpack, Jim thought he was probably the most content he’d ever be in his life. 

Looking down at the darker hand he clasped in his own, he eyed the scratches and scars earned from a year of fighting. A year of lying. A year of losing, and of gaining, of love and loss. He let a grin touch his lips. His life wouldn’t be normal, ever. And maybe that was a little terrifying. But pressed between two of the strongest, kindest, bravest people in the world, he felt like the world wasn’t on his shoulders. He felt at peace.

Jim tilted his head back and let the world fade into sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this at around the time my grandfather died. At the time, I had some really mixed feelings about him, but I feel like writing this helped clear some things up for me - I may not have known him very well, and he may have been a republican, but I know he really did love me and my family. Somewhere in that diabetic heart. Hats off to you, dude.


End file.
